Lake
Calenhad stretched out before them. The largest inland water body in Ferelden –
probably in all of Thedas – was dark and turbulent here, its waters murkily
lapping against the shores on one side, and against the island that housed the
still-imposing Circle Tower on the other.

There had
once been a road connecting the mainland to the Tower, a bridge built by the
Tevinter Imperium when it had ruled over Ferelden. It had long since fallen
into disrepair. A small jetty and the little ferry-boat it housed was now the
only way to get to the Tower. A village had sprung up around it, little more
than a few scattered houses and the big tavern, The Spoiled Princess, which was
always full of people either having business at the Circle Tower or stopping
over on the way from Redcliffe to Denerim. The plan was to hire a room for
Leliana at the Princess and for Neria to go alone to fetch help from the Tower.
It would be faster and more effective than announcing themselves as Wardens,
she had pointed out, and the ferry boat that went across the lake could never
carry an injured Leliana in any sort of comfort.

Neria had
spent exactly one night in the Princess. It had been when the Templars had
brought her to the Circle as a child. They had arrived well after darkness had
fallen, and she had been put to stay in a room in the Tavern with one of the
Templars watching her at all times, as had been the case all through the
journey. She had missed her mother terribly. She remembered crying herself to
sleep thinking about her.

As Neria
looked at the Tavern, she wondered when she had forgotten her mother. She
barely remembered what she looked like now. She had had golden hair like
herself, Neria remembered that, and was beautiful too, but not so dark as Neria
was. She wondered if her mother was still in Denerim, at the alienage. Had she
found companionship again? Employment? Children? Maybe she had another family
now, and had forgotten the daughter who had gone to the Circle all those years
ago, just as the daughter had forgotten having a mother.

“Who was
your mother, Alistair?” she asked, as they walked from Bodahn's wagon towards
the Tavern.

He seemed
surprised at the sudden question.

“Serving-girl
in Redcliffe Castle,” he replied. “Died when I was born. Haven't I told you
before?”

“I probably
was not paying attention,” she smiled. “What about Leliana? Who do you think
her mother is, or was?”

'She's cagey
isn't she?” said Alistair. “She's clearly Orlesian, and noble too, if the
accent is anything to go on, but she never lets on a word about anything beyond
that.”

“Except that
Orlesian nobles don't end up as Chantry sisters in a one-horse town like
Lothering.”

“You never
know where you could end up,” shrugged Alistair. “I certainly didn't think I'd
be the last of two Wardens in Ferelden, fighting a Blight side-by-side with a
couple of crazy mages.”

Neria
scratched her nose thoughtfully.

“Do you
fancy Leliana?” she asked.

#

Alistair
stopped and turned to look her in the face. He could make out Morrigan and Sten
directing a servant who had come down from the Spoiled Princess with a
stretcher to carry out Leliana from where she had been sleeping inside the
trade wagon. Biscuit was marking his territory on a wooden post that showed the
way to the dock. And then there was Neria, smooth, bare dark skin, shoulders,
torso, stomach, legs, all that perfection, the flimsy robe covering only the
barest minimum, bright blue eyes, dirty blonde hair pulled tightly back into a
ponytail, a few strands falling over her forehead nonetheless, asking him if he
liked Leliana? Of course he liked Leliana, who did not? She was pretty, she was
adorable, she had an amazing figure and she was devout – the girl you wanted to
take home and kiss and admire. But she was not Neria. Neria with the nonchalant
disregard for convention, Neria who seemed to live and breathe desire, Neria
whose fire was unquenchable, Neria who disgusted and inflamed him in equal
measure.

“Yes, I
mean, I hardly know her, but she seems a nice sort,” he said, trying to put it
outside his mind.

“She is
lovely, isn't she?”

“She's also
funny, and friendly and full of life. At least she was, until…”

“What about
Morrigan?” They were walking again now, towards the tavern.

Alistair
chuckled.

“I'm told
there are men who rather get off on being told what miserable specimens of
humanity they are. I'm not one of them.”

“Do you
think she actually likes anyone?” wondered Neria.

“The dog, probably.
And she seems to have the hots for Sten, or is pretending
to.”

“Ah well,
Qunari men, you know. Reputation. I want him too, but he's not shown any
interest in either of us.”

Alistair
rolled his eyes.

“Oh,
should've remembered. Neria-fucks-anything. Well, maybe he rides his horse on
the other side of the road.”

Neria
groaned.

“I suppose
you thought that was a funny euphemism.”

“What about
– maybe he stirs his tea in the other direction? Butters the other side of the
toast?”

“Yes, I
wonder why,” a touch of resentment now entered his voice. “Am I that
distasteful? Or do you despise me just as much as Morrigan does and are just
better at hiding it?”

“That's
unfair, Alistair!” she exclaimed, with a vehemence that surprised him.

“Is it,
though?” he countered. “I seem to remember an elf who, after being taken by two
men in the Wilds, taunted them for not being able to satisfy her, but still
made no offer to the third man who was, in fact, present.”

“Would you
have?” she shot back. “You, who were sneering at me with contempt and disgust
the whole time.”

“I don't
know,” said Alistair. “I don't know, you – you looked incredible at that
moment. I don't know what I would have done.”

“Well you’re
always handsome, but that doesn’t mean I’ll be offering myself to you all the
same.”

She strode
off towards the pier, leaving him standing in place. He remained there until
Morrigan came and asked acerbically if he was trying to look like a statue of
King Cailan.

#

“And Loghain
has declared the Wardens traitors to the Crown and ordered a bounty on their
heads,” said the old man sitting next to the bar table, sharing the latest
gossip with the customers.

Alistair
chuckled as he recalled the clumsy amateurs who had, indeed, tried to collect
the 'bounty'. Even without Leliana, he and the rest had made short work of
them. Morrigan, who was feeding Biscuit scraps of bacon near the fireplace and
trying to look very hard as if she was not enjoying it, had transformed into a
very scary-looking Wolf. It had been more for the shock effect than anything
else, but worked beautifully, with Alistair and Biscuit embarking on a
slaughter while Neria picked off the injured bounty-hunters with arcane bolts.

“The
Templars wouldn't consider themselves beholden to follow Loghain's orders, you
know. Not unless they were endorsed by the Grand Cleric of the Chantry in
Denerim,” said Alistair softly to Morrigan and Sten. It was fifteen minutes
since Neria had left in a huff for the pier and Morrigan had expressed concern
the fact that she had not taken Biscuit along. “Neria should be all right.”

“Did you say
Neria?”

The old man
had spoken, and now setting aside his audience, he walked over to where they
sat, Morrigan and Alistair facing each other with a mug of ale in their hands, Biscuit
between them. Sten sat at a table a little distance away with Bodahn and his
son, who was watching the bubbles in the ale his father was drinking, quite
fascinated.

“I'm sorry,
you might have mis-heard,” said Alistair, cursing himself for speaking out
loud. The last thing he wanted was a situation like Lothering where the
peasants of the village tried to collect the bounty and got themselves
slaughtered for it.

“I'm sure
you said Neria,” the old man dropped his voice. “You can tell me, I knew her when
she was in the Tower. Became a Warden, didn't she? Blonde hair, dark skin,
tight stomach, always ready for a pounding?”

“Sounds like
her,” Alistair admitted. The man was white-haired and had a slight paunch and
did not look armed. It was more than likely that he would have heard about
Neria if he had lived in the village. No doubt stories carried across the
water.

“Is she
here? I wonder if she remembers old Kester. Good times we had, her and old
Kester,” he chuckled.

“Don't tell
me,” Alistair sighed. Clearly Neria's standards were even lower than he had
suspected.

“Oh yes. I
mean, not with me, but one hears things. And you need not worry about her in
there. Half them Templars in there would sooner 'ave Neria on her back under
them than shut up in prison.”

Alistair was
not sure what to think of that particular answer.

“And the
other half?” asked Morrigan with a grin.

“On them
fine knees, of course. That mouth of hers is mighty sinful, I’m told,” Kester
gave a roguish wink.

“So how do
you know her?” asked Morrigan conversationally. “I didn't know the mages were
allowed to visit the village.”

“They ain’t,”
said Kester. “I go over to their side. I'm the ferryman, see. Leastways
I was until Gregoir came and took my boat away from me and gave it that Templar
Caroll to manage. Crazy feller, that Caroll. Came from Denerim last month. Bit
touched in the head.”

Morrigan and
Alistair looked at each other in alarm.

“Right, come
on, let's go,” said Alistair, getting to his feet. “Morrigan, stay here and
look after our invalid. Sten, come with me, our leader has gone expecting an
old man who was soft on her and instead is up against a crazy Templar from
Denerim.”

“I heard the
man speak,” said Sten, who was already fastening his great-sword on his back.

“Let's go.”

Biscuit
followed, his tail still and eyes wary.

#

The pier
looked much the same as she remembered. The little boat did too, and the Tower
across the water was as ominous as it had appeared when she had first seen it
as a eight year-old child.

Apart from a
man in Templar armour at the end of it, she couldn't see anyone there. There
was no sign of Kester the ferryman.

Neria
impatiently walked towards the Templar. He was a ferret-faced young fellow with
carrot-coloured hair.

“Hello?” she
said. “Are you waiting for him too? Damn it, where's Kester?”

“Kester
should be hanging around near the Spoiled Princess,” said the Templar, keenly
observing his nails.

“When is he
getting back then? I need to get across.”

“Couldn't
rightly say. Could be sooner, could be longer. Could be not at all.”

Neria
stamped her foot angrily. That made him raise his head and look at her. And
gasp.

“Ooh,
Neria!”

“Ooh me,
yes. Who are you?”

“Name's
Caroll. Recognised you from the likeness in Cullen's locket. Arrived from
Denerim last month,” he chuckled softly, as if he had just said something very
funny.

“Well, I
need to get across, Carroll,” she snapped.

“No! I've
one job, and one job only, and by the Maker's shiny gold cutlery, I will do
it!” Carroll responded, just as vehemently.

“What are
you babbling about?”

“That's
right, yes sir. One job. I will do it.”

Neria took a
deep breath and spoke slowly. She had seen Templars suffering from lyrium
poisoning and could identify the symptoms.

“Carroll,
can you explain to me in simple terms why you have taken Kester's place and why
you're not taking me across?”

He dropped
his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Because
Gregoir told Kester to take a break for a while and gave him forty silvers!
Then he gave me an oar and said to me 'Carroll', he said, 'You man the ferry
and don't you ferry anyone across but us Templars, see.' That's what he said
and that's what I will do, yes sir.”

“Is there a
problem at the Tower?” asked Neria.

“The Tower
is the problem,” said Carroll with a buffoon-like grin.

“Listen,
Carroll, a woman, a woman who is very dear to me,” Neria began, “is dying. I
need to bring a healer back here from the Tower. Wynne, if she's still alive,
Anders if he is…and so please, don't waste any more time and get a move on…”

“Wynne came
back from Ostagar,” Carroll grinned, rocking back and forth on his feet.

“I'm
delighted to hear it!” said Neria sincerely. “So now can we please - ?”

“No. I've
one job, and one job only, and by the Maker's flowing long beard, I will do
it!”

For a moment
Neria contemplated setting Biscuit on the Templar and finding Kester and
getting him to take her across. But she wouldn't make any friends going to the
Tower with a dead or injured Carroll left behind.

“Listen,
Carroll, I know you think you're doing your job, but I am a Grey Warden now,
see. You must have been told about how Warden Commander Duncan came to the
tower and recruited me. Well, now I have these treaties that require the Circle
to lend its aid to us Wardens on request.”

She fished
the Treaty out of the bag slung around her back. Carroll took a long hard look
at it.

“Oh, a Grey
Warden treaty! So you're supposed to be one of those. Well, I've got some
papers too! They say I'm the Queen of Antiva! What do you have to say to that?”

Apparently
he found this a very amusing joke, because he chuckled again.

“Well, look,
if you could identify me from the likeness in Cullen's locket,” said Neria,
taking a step closer to him. “Surely you've heard the other stories as well.”

“Oh yes. And
oh no! I know you, devil elf-woman and your wiles. I know you are a seductress
and temptress and seamstress. I've got one job, and one job only, and by the
Maker's dull silk sandals, I will do it!”

Finding
nothing in the names he called her that she could plausibly deny, Neria stuck
to being persuasive.

“Well, I do
modify my own robes, it's true, but come on, Caroll. You can take me across
can't you? What harm could I possibly do? I'll let you have me however you
want.”

“You're too
eager to get across. What do you mean to do, evil demon of desire and
tailoring?” his eyes narrowed.

“I just told
you, I have a sick friend and Wynne is the only one who…”

It was at
that moment that Alistair and Sten came running up to the pier, followed closely
by Biscuit. Caroll reacted by drawing his sword and screaming, “Seek not to
intimidate me with your sewing, your body and your fair-haired friend and his
Qunari giant! I will not fail! I've got one job, and one job only, and by the
Maker's bright shining toes, I will do it!”

Sten had his
sword in hand as well. Biscuit bared his teeth in an angry grin. But Neria
remained unmoved, her staff still slung across her back.

“It's all
right, Alistair,” said Neria. “Caroll, I don't want to hurt you. Alistair here
is a Templar-trained Grey Warden who could cut you to pieces in a minute. Sten
can lift you up and break your spine as easy as drinking a mug of ale. And the
mabari will be biting chunks off your face before you can say 'Boo'. But they
won't do any of those things, because if you don't ferry us across in the next
five minutes, I'll push you into the water first.”

“Hah! I can
swim!” said Caroll triumphantly.

“Maybe you
should look into the water,” said Neria.

Caroll slid
his eyes right without moving his head. The water underneath them was frothing.
Bubbles rose to the surface. He swallowed nervously as the steam rose from the
surface.

“The whole
lake?” he asked, a reverential note entering his voice.

“Just ten
feet around the pier,” she admitted. “But if I'm able to get my hands on my
staff before you bring down a Holy Smite upon me, who knows what I could do? By
the way, is your armour feeling warm? Do you feel stuffy inside? Sweaty? Maybe
my dog can have some roast Templar for dinner.”

Biscuit hung
his tongue out of his mouth. Caroll sheathed his sword and began to pull the
rope, bringing the ferry-boat close to the pier.

“Right, so,
err, I'll take you across. This way, please.”

Neria
stepped into the boat.

“I'm coming
along,” said Alistair. “Sten, join Morrigan at the Inn. They may need
protection there.”

Biscuit
jumped into the boat as well.

“Full
house,” grumbled Caroll, picking up an oar.

“Full boat,”
said Neria thoughtfully.

“Listen,
about that offer of yours…”

“You had
your chance.”

“Oh well,”
sighed Caroll, a grin spreading across his face. “I've never done it before you
know, and Templar Captain Ser Brodriger told me you've got many skills and not
one skill only, and by the Maker's clean white pillow-case, now I will never do
it!”

#

The gates to
the Circle Tower were massive, iron-lined wood, older than the Tevinter
Imperium. As Alistair entered, Biscuit at his side, he had a definitive sense
of being very small.

He had
expected to enter into a passage or a Hall. Instead he seemed to have wandered
into an infirmary. Men – mostly Templars, lay wounded or dying on the floors,
as other men tended to their wounds. There was a smell of ointment and healing
potions heavy in the air. A few Templars stood, silent and helmed, their faces
invisible. At the other end of the passage were massive wooden gates just as
large as the one he had come through, shut and barred with massive iron
latches. He felt their eyes upon him as another man approached, wearing the
Templar armour with the tree symbol on the chest-piece, grey haired and
bearded.

“My respects
to you, Knight Commander Gregoir,” said Alistair, bowing. He had seen him once
at Redcliffe. It was the visit when he had met young Cullen as well and they
had sat in the Tavern talking about the Chant of Light and a beautiful little
Elf girl who made Cullen struggle so much with his vows of celibacy.

“Who? What's
this, who are you? Did I not specifically tell Caroll not to…Seldon, go see
what the idiot is up to. Or, just…oh, forget it.” Gregoir seemed to bark rather
than speak.

“I am
Alistair, Knight Commander,” said Alistair politely. “Alistair the Grey Warden.
We have come seeking the aid of the Circle of Magi in the fight against the
Darkspawn. Surely you have heard about what happened at Ostagar. Right now, of
course, I would be content if you could send a healer with us across the lake…”

The old
Templar cast a piercing gaze at Alistair.

“I know what
happened at Ostagar. I also know that Teyrn Loghain has declared all Wardens
traitors to the crown and responsible for the death of King Cailan.”

Alistair was
about to open his mouth to defend himself, when Gregoir raised a hand.

“And I also
know better than to believe that nonsense. Alistair – were you not an initiate
at the Redcliffe Chantry?”

“Yes, that
would be me,” admitted Alistair.

“The
resemblance is certainly striking,” said the Knight Commander, in a softer
tone. “Well, lad, you've come at rather a bad time. You won't find the help
you're looking for here. Look around.”

“Is
something wrong?” asked Alistair.

“Demons,
boy. Demons running riot through the tower. I don't know how it happened
exactly, but Uldred was mixed up in it, and now I have sealed the gates – what
you see of us in this Hall is all that I have with me now.”

“And the
mages?” Alistair's jaw dropped.

“Dead, or
dying, or possessed by demons, more likely.” Gregoir shook his head grimly. “I
have called for the order from the Chantry in Denerim to carry out the Rite of
Annulment.”

“Wait,
what?”

“There is no
choice. We do not know what is going on beyond that door. I don't have the men
to go in there to rescue any innocents who might have survived. Once I have the
authorisation from the Grand Cleric – and reinforcements - we will raze the
Tower to the Ground. If even a single demon gets out of here and makes it to
the mainland…well, boy, you have your Darkspawn to worry about. I've got my
demons. I can't risk it!”

Alistair shuddered
where he stood. The Rite of Annulment was effectively a death sentence to every
living mage in the Circle. It was the most powerful weapon in the hands of the
Templars and only invoked in the most extreme circumstances. If Gregoir had
already asked for it, the situation inside must have been dire indeed.

“If you need
supplies or healing potions, we have a few, though we can spare precious
little. But then you'd best be on your way.”

Alistair
shook his head wordlessly. So this was it. No Wynne, no magical healing, no
life for Leliana and no help from the Circle of Magi in fighting the darkspawn.
In a day or two, or however long it took for the missive to reach from Denerim
to Lake Calenhad, there wouldn't BE a Circle of Magi in Ferelden. He turned to
leave.

“Just a
moment, Alistair.” Gregoir said. “I heard that all the Wardens had died at
Ostagar, barring you – and a mage. Would that mage be an Elf girl called Neria
Surana?”

“Yes,” said
Alistair, turning and speaking cautiously.

“Well, she
did right to stay away and send you here. She was a curse upon the circle, a
morass of sin. It's unfortunate she survived Ostagar. But perhaps the Maker
thought that having her die a martyr was too bright a fate for one such as she,
the filthy little whore.”

“Someone
call for me?”

Neria was
walking – sashaying in, rather, hips swaying, running a finger around her lips.
Mercifully she had not taken pity on Caroll and decided to let him have her, or
else Alistair felt they would have a tough time explaining any visible marks of
their activity.

“You!”
Gregoir spat out the word as if it was a curse.

“Me,” she
said. She spread her arms out, resplendent in the light of the torches, bronze
skin glistening. “Miss me, boys?”

Her presence
had certainly caused a sensation around the room. Bleeding, injured Templars
were staring at her, transfixed. Clearly this was an audience she had under her
thumb.

“What's
going on here?” she asked, her voice just as assertive as Gregoir's in its own
way.

“Rite of
Annulment,” said Alistair, before Gregoir, who looked on the verge of an
apoplectic fit could speak. “Demons have broken through from the fade,
casualties are high and Gregoir thinks there is no other choice.”

“I've lost
over fifty men in there,” said Gregoir, gnashing his teeth.

“Surely
Irving is trapped in the tower too!” exclaimed Neria, serious now. She had not
suspected things had gone so wrong. “You can't be suggesting that he is fallen
prey to a demon! Or Wynne for that matter.”

“If they are
in there, they are surrounded by demons! Are you going to go in there and
rescue them, then?” Gregoir sneered. “Or are you going to corrupt my men in
your own way, just as the demons of the fade corrupt the mages?”

“Call off
the Rite of Annulment, Gregoir,” she said, taking her staff in her hand. “And I
will go in there and get the survivors out, Templar and Mage alike. If not, I
will stay right here and ask your men to tie you up so you can watch while
I…corrupt them, as you call it.”

“You're
outnumbered, Neria,” he scoffed. “I'll have you drained of mana and dead before
you make a move against me.”

“No,
Gregoir, No, you won't. Because you're a sensible man and you know the
darkspawn are a greater evil than anything, even the Demons in this tower, and
you won't kill me, because then you'll have to kill Alistair, too. And you
don't want to be known as the man who ended Ferelden's chances of resisting the
Blight. We are the last Wardens in Ferelden, Gregoir, the very last, and you
know it!”

Gregoir
hesitated. Alistair thought he could guess what the old Templar was thinking.
He was not sure of the allegiance of his men, most of whom had surely partaken
of the pleasures Neria could give, apart from the undeniable fact that as a
righteous man, Gregoir could not ignore the fact that there was a Blight in
Ferelden and the Wardens were the only chance Ferelden had of ending it.

If she went
inside the Tower, at least her fate would be taken out of his hands.

“Fine. If
you bring Irving before me, safe and sound, I will call off the Rite. You have
twenty-four hours.”

“That's
settled then. Come on Alistair. Biscuit, to me!”

As the gate
to the inner corridor of the Tower creaked open, Alistair leaned in and
whispered to her.

“Do you
really think we can sort out this…mess on our own?”

“If we walk
away, we sign Leliana's death warrant. Besides, the Tower was my home, and I
mean to save it if I can. You know, I've always fancied confronting a desire
demon,” she replied with a nervous laugh.

“All you
need to do is look in a mirror, my lady.”

The voice
that spoke was behind them. Two Templars there, inside the closing gates. The
one who had spoken was a handsome man with long black hair.

“Why, Ser
Brodriger,” said Neria, smiling, “what are you doing here?”

“Following
you, Neria. We will help you fight whatever is inside.”

“Gregoir
will excommunicate you for this, you know.”

It was the
other one who answered, an older man with curly red hair.

“A Templar's
job is to fight evil magic, not stand by and watch as innocents die with the
guilty. Gregoir can take a hike. It will be an honour to fight at your side.
Ser Deveron, at your command.”

She touched
the man's cheek. The look in her eyes - an amalgam of lust, gratitude and
pride, made Alistair shake his head with wonder at the contradiction that she
represented, a mix of nobility and goodness and wantonness that he just could
not reconcile in his mind.

“The rewards
will be great, Deveron, and the pleasure will be mine as much as yours,” she
promised, her eyes moving down to the magnificent body that the Holy Sisters so
proudly displayed, and then locking with his again – all that was needed to
make him, and the others imagine what she meant.

“Good to
have back-up,” agreed Alistair.

“What's the
threat of demonic possession before the attractions you have on display?”
winked Ser Brodriger.

“Or, to put
it differently,” said Neria, swirling, the skirt of her robe rising as she did,
showing off her toned upper thighs, “What's the Rite of Annulment before the
charm of Neria Surana? And now, we have a Tower full of Fade demons that we
have to eradicate.”

Featured Post of the Day

About Me

Percy Slacker was bitten by Schrodinger’s Cat as a child, and has since then combined a deep fear of cats with an
abiding conviction that he both exists and does not exist at the same
time. This existential doubt has led him
to grow up to be a writer while not actually being a writer.

He lives in Mumbai with his family, his book collection and a firm
conviction that modern civilization is in an interminable decline.